


"it's as sweet as angels sighing"

by Star_less



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale reads to Crowley, Bedtime Stories, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Cuddling & Snuggling, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Not Canon Compliant, One Shot, Reading, Reading Aloud, Sleepiness, Slice of Life, The Secret Garden - Freeform, sleepy ethereal beings !
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-18
Updated: 2020-02-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:33:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22793305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Star_less/pseuds/Star_less
Summary: With Crowley settling into life at the bookshop, he finds he misses the comforts of home and has trouble settling at night.Tentatively, Aziraphale suggests he read a book.He was crooning. “Keep it in your pants, Aziraphale,” Crowley rolled his eyes; Aziraphale came over bashful and shook his head. “It’s a good story,” he reiterated, whining. “A classic. My point being, maybe—maybe you need to read it differently.”“Read it differently…?” Crowley spluttered, and stared at the book with venomous distaste. “Angel, I tried to read itupside down!”
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 45





	"it's as sweet as angels sighing"

The rain thrummed quietly against the windowpane from clouds in the London sky that were pregnant – swollen, even – with a storm. Out of all of the Things that God had created, rain was up there as one of the best; or so Aziraphale thought. Many in London stared at the brooding clouds in despair or moaned at the lashing but Aziraphale – he thought quite the opposite. The sound of the rain was intoxicating to him. It really rather reminded him of God – sat up there in Heaven drumming Her fingers and pondering ‘what should I inflict on them today?’  
…Mmm. Perhaps if Aziraphale was one of the many out there in the foggy storm of London town his opinion would have differed; but as it was he was sat in the honeyed warmth of the bookshop, held in tight by the scent of dusty well-loved stories, the steam of his tea in a pot on the stove, and twin curls of steam from the filled teacup at his side.  
Sometimes (if he was very lucky) someone would step through the doors and only the tinkle of the doorbell would alert him of their presence. That, and the scent of drying rain on cobblestone. 

“What are you doing?”

The bookshop sat in silence, so Aziraphale knew not to sweep to attention. Rather than be a welcome distraction, the voice was Crowley. Not—not that Crowley was an unwelcome distraction, of course, just that when it was like this, when Aziraphale had fallen into this cosy little reading nook, he found he preferred those other distractions a tad more. Crowley as Aziraphale knew him was not anything of a voracious reader – a tad more ‘get up and go’ than his angelic counterpart. At least when Aziraphale was around some of those other distractions he could talk books; Crowley was less than interested, even if he pretended to be so just to please the angel – and Aziraphale could tell. “Reading,” he said primly, flicking his gaze across the page. “Narnia. A terrifically interesting book, I must say.”

“Oh.” Crowley said, the first hints of a whine evident in his voice. He circled the angel slowly from where he was sat in his armchair and caught a cluster of words. His eyes followed for a short while before the fidgeting set in and he pulled away with a tut. “Angel, that looks boring.”

“Is that so, Demon?”  
Aziraphale fired a rueful little smile into his teacup but made no attempt to finish reading, eyes trained on the book that was now in his lap. The initial silence that had settled in the bookshop rose and then settled once more. Crowley only tutted. 

“You know,” Aziraphale kept his nose in his book, spitting words at paragraphs. It was easier, he had found, to talk to Crowley when he had his focus placed elsewhere. The demon seemed to let down his scratchy veneer if only for a moment. And—as much as he wanted to deny it, as much as Crowley tried to hide it—there was patently an issue at hand. Not that Aziraphale blamed Crowley. After all, he had been all but forced into living at the bookshop. Aziraphale had seen Crowley’s living quarters and (silently horrified that anybody could live with such minimal comfort) had made a (tentative) decision to ask if Crowley would maybe like to live at the bookshop with him instead. Crowley had accepted the proposition with absolute glee, figuring that the pair spent so much time together anyway it would be no different to whatever was their normal… but it had become obvious to Aziraphale that Crowley hadn’t yet settled in the bookshop – and yet it had been weeks. Not that Crowley had ever stepped forward and told him any of this, mind you, but Aziraphale couldn’t go on ignoring the paced, anxious footsteps or the demonic sounding wails and moans floating down from the room that Crowley was occupying for much longer.  
Of course, neither demon nor angel had any need for as much rest as the average human – but that was not to mean that Crowley should go without rest forever. Aziraphale could already see the… less desirable… effects of Crowley’s sleep deprivation; the demon was a tightly coiled spring ready to explode. Whenever he spilled, or dropped, or did something even the smallest bit off kilter, a little more of his temper chipped away. His chest tightened. He breathed tighter. His nostrils flared. It was no longer a question of ‘if’ but simply ‘when’ – and Aziraphale wanted to deaden the effects as much as possible. “…I dare say that reading a decent story would be rather calming to you, should you need it.”

Crowley spun around with a frown, lips parted. His tongue looked to be dripping with venom. “Calming?!”  
Sometimes, he thought his Angel was absurd, or had plain gone nuts. Calming.  
Hell almighty. What was he, a child? Was that really their hierarchy? Charming. 

“If you need it.” Aziraphale shrugged in a prim ‘I’m always right’ sort of way – the sort that made Crowley prickle right at the back of his neck in annoyance.  
~

A book had disappeared from the bookshelf. Aziraphale could sense which one it was on instinct – the green leather-bound hardback with a twist of gold up the spine. It had a dust jacket but year upon year of new owner after new owner leafing through had taken its toll and left it aged and yellow looking.  
Somehow, Aziraphale found he didn’t mind this, although he quite wondered what a thief would want with that particular book. Apart from its age it was nothing special, not to a thief, anyway.  
~

Crowley was reading. 

Although it almost pained him to come to terms with it, Aziraphale was right. He hadn’t adjusted to his new lifestyle at the bookshop in the slightest. The sounds, the smells, the pin-dropping silence was enough to have him raising his shields. Not even the comforting presence of his Angel felt like enough to magic away the snake tongue of discomfort low in his stomach. He missed the cool draught of home. The damp darkness. Hell, he even missed his plants and their leafy cocoon in his living room. Though his methods of agriculture were less than pleasurable for his plants, he supposed that the same world-melting feeling Aziraphale got from reading was what he got from examining his plants.  
There was no telling Aziraphale this, of course. It would break him, and Crowley was not sure he wanted to break any more people. 

Aziraphale had allowed for him to bring a small sapling which was growing strong in the sunlight of Crowley’s bedroom windowsill. When it was big enough to be shouted at it would be moved to a bigger pot for the corner of the room. And Aziraphale would be convinced into letting him bring the rest of his cornucopia, of course.  
But it wasn’t the same, not for now, and so Crowley was reading. He had picked it himself. It was called The Secret Garden and he had chosen it with the thought that it would have taught him how to entice his plants into behaving, but it was rather pathetic in that respect. It was fictional, first of all, and had little in the way of agriculture. Secondly, it appeared to be a children’s story book (Crowley was not tipped off by the childish scrawl on the opening page titled ‘this book belongs to…’) and was really rather dull. No matter what Crowley tried – reading in a silly voice, reading upside down with his glasses slid halfway down his face, reading the book upside down in case it revealed an alternate and considerably more interesting plot – he couldn’t get himself to relax like he could with his plants.  
~

“Crowley dear boy, have you seen…”  
Aziraphale saw Crowley’s bedroom door open a crack and seized his opportunity. 

The sudden flush of bright gold light hitting Crowley’s dark—oh, when had it gotten dark?—bedroom yanked Crowley back to attention. There, bathed in the golden light, was Aziraphale. Two thoughts hit Crowley’s mind at once. Aziraphale was in pyjamas. Aziraphale was in pyjamas, and he had just seen…

“No!” Crowley blurted, fumbling to stuff the book under his pillow. He shifted, in an, ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about’ sort of way. “No, not a clue!”

Aziraphale flinched, but smiled. “Oh!” he stilled. “Um, it’s—it’s just…” I noticed a book was missing and thought you had read it after all, he imagined himself chirping – and Crowley’s scoff and roll of eye in return. “Nothing, just doing some before-bed book counts, that’s all.”  
A feeble giggle; blatant he was lying. “I’ll leave you to rest. Sleep well.”  
He turned on his heel. 

“…I did what you said, Angel,” Crowley picked mutely at his bedsheets, feeling embarrassment prickle its way up his neck. “Read a book.”

Aziraphale whipped around. “You did?” He smiled, private and pleased.

Crowley wrinkled his nose. “Didn’t work, so much for your advice, Zira.” Zira’s face fell and to Crowley, yes, it hurt, but all the same he was too tired, too sleep deprived, to care otherwise. He had tried, he had tried and he was sick of trying and Aziraphale couldn’t blame him for that. Sighing, he took the book from where he had stuffed it, beneath his pillows and duvet, holding it aloft for the angel. “Rubbish,” he wrinkled his nose as Aziraphale studied the front cover, “wasn’t about plants at all, told me nothing.”

“Ah!” Aziraphale’s voice was awe filled and fond, and his eyes were milky as he looked at the cover. “No, that one isn’t quite about plants, is it?” he chuckled. “I took tea with Frances Hodgson Burnett once, what a wonderful lady.”

He was crooning. “Keep it in your pants, Aziraphale,” Crowley rolled his eyes; Aziraphale came over bashful and shook his head. “It’s a good story,” he reiterated, whining. “A classic. My point being, maybe—maybe you need to read it differently.”

“Read it differently…?” Crowley spluttered, and stared at the book with venomous distaste. “Angel, I tried to read it _upside down_!”

“Maybe you need someone to read it to you.”

Crowley stared.  
He sighed.  
He made a show of rolling his eyes and shifting. “…get in, then.”  
~

“When Mary Lennox was sent to Misselthwaite Manor,” began Aziraphale theatrically. He was, as invited, pressed up against his Demon. Crowley was leaned against him, laying almost prone, and Aziraphale was sat up with the thick hardback book in his lap, a weight on the duvet. Crowley grudgingly listened – well, he hadn’t taken much of the book in when he had tried to read it by himself, so it was like reading an entirely new story.  
“Everybody said she was the most disagreeable looking child ever seen.”  
Aziraphale was surprised Crowley hadn’t been captivated by the first line alone; he had thought that disagreeable children were the demon’s forte, anyway. Blissfully he noticed that his demon was as quiet and as still as anything – no quips, no squirms, no scoffs. 

Crowley, if you had asked him, would have shot you to the ground with a stare – except really secretly, burning in his blood, he saw what his Angel was talking about. He had one of those voices, cliché and cherubic and soft, that made the story suddenly seem interesting and full of wonder. The other uncomfortable thorny secret, of course, was that they hadn’t ever slept together – not like this, not pressed against one another for comfort. Aziraphale was… he was soft. Soft and firm and warm in a way that Crowley hadn’t noticed before – like the softest pillow. His own body, rigid, melted back against the angel’s plumpness and he listened to the sound of his angel’s voice, his eyes growing gorgeously heavy with sleep. Aziraphale took him by the hand and tiptoed with him through the secret garden – tiptoed him all the way into a peaceful mouth-open softly-snoring ‘pearl-of-drool-at-the-corner-of-his-mouth’ sort of slumber. 

Crowley was heavy against his side and, fondly smiling, Aziraphale closed the book. Contentedness had him miracle it away (after noting where he had finished off, of course) and he tucked himself against his Demon, pulling the covers over them both. “Goodnight, Demon,” he smiled, satisfaction bleeding into his voice. “I hope you sleep well.”

For he knew Crowley would and he really quite thought this would become something of a regular occurrence.

**Author's Note:**

> this is really bad I'm sorry lol. I couldn't get it out of my head!


End file.
